


Dr. Lawrence

by wheel_pen



Series: Miscellaneous House MD Stories [3]
Category: House M.D.
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-22
Updated: 2015-02-22
Packaged: 2018-03-14 11:57:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3409706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wheel_pen/pseuds/wheel_pen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Early on, House gets a different female doctor to work for him, and the storyline takes a different path. Scenes over the years.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dr. Lawrence

**Author's Note:**

> The bad words are censored; that’s just how I do things. I hope you enjoy this AU. I own nothing and appreciate being able to play in this universe.

_At first..._

“You’ve had Chase for six months and haven’t even done anything with him,” Wilson reminded his friend.

House looked up from the pile of resumes he wasn’t reading. “You thought I would jump him his first day here?” he asked accusingly. “What am I, a _slut_ or something?”

Wilson sighed and shifted the folders on his lap. “My point,” he clarified, “is merely that you haven’t put the doctor you _have_ to work, so what do you need another one for?”

“Actually, I need _two_ more,” House decided. “I’m budgeted for three pets, after all, and right now the pretty parrot by itself just isn’t doing anything for me.” Wilson rolled his eyes. “I need something... cuddlier. Something that will be glad to see me in the morning. Something... furry.”

“This conversation is getting _really_ weird,” the younger man pointed out, and House nodded readily.

“I kind of forgot where I was going with it,” he admitted. “My mind is dissolving into a puddle of goo from reading all these horrible resumes.”

“You’re actually reading them?” Wilson asked in surprise. “I thought you were just shuffling all the pages into the wrong folders before giving them back to Personnel.”

“Oh, I _am_ doing that,” his friend agreed. “But occasionally I glance at the writing as well.” He held up one piece of paper and scoffed, “Look at this one. Four-point-oh at Columbia, all four years. Undergrad at Stanford, same GPA.”

“What a loser,” Wilson agreed dryly.

“Total nerd.” House tossed the paper into a random folder. “Very boring. And this one!” Another sheet was grabbed. “Two years volunteering in the Peace Corps in Zambia!”

“Obviously just trying to get laid.”

“Can you imagine the whining?” House shuddered envisioning it. “Probably eats organic granola and wears sandals made of free-range hemp or something.” He thought a moment. “On the other hand, if they cry every time I throw a pop can in the regular trash, I could see the potential for fun.”

Wilson sighed and handed him another sheet. “How about this one?”

House gave the resume a once-over and snorted derisively. “’Prairieland Medical Center’?” he read with some disbelief. “Where the h—l is _that_ and is it even an accredited university? Or do they just hand out degrees to the people who score high at Operation?”

“Well, playing that game is how _I_ learned surgery,” Wilson commented. “I still live in fear of those little buzzing sounds.”

“And this”—House squinted at the name—“Molly Lawrence _wasn’t_ even one of the high scorers. Three-point-five GPA? Are you sure your pile is for the fellowship application and not, I don’t know, second woman behind the salad bar in the hospital cafeteria?”

“Give her points for ambition, anyway,” his friend suggested.

House gave him a stern look. “No points will be awarded for aiming high if you belly-flop across the finish line ten minutes _after_ everyone else. Delusions of grandeur are usually a _replacement_ for actual grandeur, not a precursor.” Wilson rolled his eyes and stifled a sigh as House continued to pick apart the resume. “Two years at the Central Valley Clinic? What is that, a chiropractor’s office in a strip mall?” He skimmed through a couple more pages. “This person is interviewing for one of the most prestigious fellowships available, and I recognize absolutely _no one_ she ever worked with or has references from. Is she some sort of affirmative action applicant?”

“I have no idea,” Wilson admitted. “But she _is_ your next interview, so...”

House made an expression of extreme displeasure. “Are you _kidding_?” he demanded. “I actually have to waste two minutes of my valuable time rejecting this nobody, when I _could_ be rejecting any of these other somebodies?” He gestured at the pile of papers from glittering hopefuls.

“She told Personnel she could fly out anytime to interview,” Wilson tried to explain, “so they gave her an early slot.”

“Of _course_ she could interview anytime, all these other people have _real jobs_ they’d have to leave,” House replied snidely. “She flies out here, they just get some _other_ B-minus student to slap band-aids on the farm boys for a couple days.”

Wilson resisted the urge to sigh yet again. Just because he could have predicted his friend’s vitriolic reaction to the interviewee about to walk in the door didn’t make it any more enjoyable. If this kid were lucky, House would dismiss her before she even sat down—if she were unlucky, he would drag out the torture until she started crying and fled.

“Oh, come on,” he tried, “she’s got... pluck. You have to admit that.”

House stared at him for a moment. “ _Pluck_?” he repeated, and Wilson knew he was in for some not-undeserved mockery. “She’s got _pluck_? Is she also a _swell dame_ who—“

House stopped short, staring over Wilson’s shoulder, and the oncologist turned to see a young woman in a nice suit standing in the doorway. She was smiling a little nervously, so he presumed she either hadn’t heard or hadn’t understood their conversation. “Hi, I’m Molly Lawrence,” she offered. “Am I late?”

Wilson glanced back at House and found him still staring, inexplicably, at the redheaded doctor. In fact, House had an almost indescribable expression on his face—like he was gazing at something terrifying yet wonderful. Or maybe he was just being obnoxious. To cover for him, Wilson smiled at the applicant and assured her, “Not at all. Come in, please, sit down.”

Dr. Lawrence seated herself in the chair beside Wilson, in front of House’s desk, and looked from one to the other of the men with bemusement. House was _still_ staring, but now he was also frowning. Wilson wished he could kick his friend, but the desk was in the way, so he settled for telling the applicant, “Dr. House”—he said the name a bit more loudly than was necessary, in the hopes of getting his attention—“and I were just looking at your resume—“

“You’re hired.” Wilson and Dr. Lawrence both faced House with identical expressions of surprise, but _now_ he was looking anywhere but forward.

“Really?” the redhead asked carefully, with obvious and not unwarranted confusion. Wilson was feeling rather confused himself, but he handed the hiring form to House when his friend snapped his fingers and pointed at it.

House scrawled his signature across the bottom, then practically threw the piece of paper at Dr. Lawrence. “Fill that out and take it down to Personnel. Welcome to Jersey.” With that, he pushed himself out of his chair and limped stiffly out the door of the office.

Dr. Lawrence stared at the paper in her hands. “Is he serious?” she asked Wilson, who shrugged helplessly.

“Don’t go anywhere,” he suggested. “I’ll be right back.” Hurriedly dumping the stack of folders from his lap to the top of the desk, he left the office as quickly as he could without appearing frantic. After looking both ways outside the office door he spotted House halfway down the hall by the elevators and jogged over. “What was that?” Wilson asked with some irritation. He would not put it past his friend to tell someone they were hired in a coveted position, then make _Wilson_ break the news that it was just a gag.

However, House had that tense look about him that told Wilson he shouldn’t press—but he usually only _got_ that tense look when he’d done something that Wilson _had_ to press about. “That was me hiring a doctor,” he replied, deliberately ignoring the larger question. He pushed the elevator button again, as if to hurry the car along.

“You really want to hire her?” Wilson insisted, desperately trying to understand this unusual turn of events. “Without even talking to her? And after trashing her resume?”

House nodded, relieved that the elevator car had finally arrived. He raised his cane to stop Wilson from following him in. “Make sure she gets down to Personnel,” he instructed, before the door closed between them. Shaking his head and sighing at the feeling of another House-induced headache coming on, Wilson turned and headed back to his friend’s office. Maybe Molly Lawrence would do the _smart_ thing and turn the job down?

 

_Six months later..._

He could tell from Larry’s body language that she had a question—a question she was reluctant to ask. So, not a medical question then. Something... _personal_. House sighed just anticipating it. He hated personal questions. Obviously that included personal questions about _himself_ , but it also encompassed any kind of heartfelt admonition or existential musing that someone else wanted to unload about _themselves_.

Seeing her rise from her seat at the table, House quickly tried to bury himself in the comic book he was reading. Unfortunately he didn’t have time to grab a medical journal or a patient file, something that might convey his need for complete and utter concentration a little better. “Dr. House?”

He gave her only the briefest glance as she stood in front of his desk. “Say my name three times and I turn into a demon with superpowers,” he deadpanned.

“Really?” Her tone was so sincere House looked up at her, then narrowed his eyes when she smiled.

“What?” he asked with an exasperated sigh, tossing the comic book aside. Maybe if he was rude enough to her, she would just go away. Although that strategy hadn’t worked so far.

“Foreman said you’d hired him because of his criminal record,” Larry began, meandering.

“And now you’re afraid to work with him?” House guessed facetiously. “I understand. Just don’t go into any dark alleys with him and you’ll be fine. Probably.”

Larry ignored the comment. “And I know you hired Chase because, for some reason, his father thought your name would look good on his resume.”

House snorted. “Yeah. _Clearly_ his father got me mixed up with some other Dr. House, because I am _definitely_ the ‘party doctor.’”

“So I was just wondering why you hired me.”

The older man gave an exaggerated sigh mixed with a groan. “Why does it _matter_ why I hired you?” he shot back. “Feeling insecure? Go get someone else to massage your ego.” Larry’s expression suggested she wasn’t going anywhere until she got a better answer. “Go ask Wilson,” House continued, testing his rudeness theory. “I hear he’s looking for a new ego to massage.” Feeling the ache in his leg suddenly return, he pulled the prescription bottle out of his pocket.

“I’ve induced a Vicodin moment,” Larry commented dryly, apparently in no rush to vacate the office. “Must be a h—l of an answer.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” House snapped, swallowing a pill. “And don’t ask _me_ to flatter you.” He pushed himself out of his chair and started limping towards the conference room.

“I’m not,” Larry insisted, following on his heels as he headed for the coffee pot. “But you must have had _some_ reason for hiring me. I just want to know what it was.” House poured out a mug of coffee—lukewarm, but hopefully still drinkable—and tried ignoring her. “I don’t remember being especially charming or witty during the interview,” she guessed.

“Yeah, I don’t remember that either,” he replied, tasting the coffee. It was acceptable, barely. Seeing his grimace, Larry took the cup from his hand. “Hey--!”

“I’ll zap it in the microwave for you,” she told him matter-of-factly.

“You’ll just—boil it and ruin it,” House accused, put off by the gesture. If it were Chase popping his coffee into the microwave, he would know his a-s was being kissed, but Larry tended to have more complicated motives. “I didn’t hire you for your expert domestic skills, either.”

“Well, it certainly couldn’t have been for my references,” she continued leadingly, watching the coffee closely through the microwave door.

House had to agree to that. “Yeah, your references s—ked.” She gave him a look. “Not that they said _you_ s—ked,” he clarified, “but they were from people who, themselves, s—ked.”

She rolled her eyes and stopped the microwave. “AKA, people whose names you didn’t recognize.”

“AKA, nobodies,” he shot back.

She pulled the coffee out of the microwave and sipped it experimentally while House rolled his eyes. Deeming it the proper temperature, she carried the cup over to the sink. “My grades weren’t as good as Foreman’s,” she admitted, awkwardly retrieving the canister of sugar from the cabinet. It was, naturally, on the top shelf, because someone _tall_ had been using it. “And I didn’t go to as good a school.”

He’d been watching her stretch up to the top shelf. “Certainly didn’t,” he agreed. “Middle of Nowhere Valley Veterinary Night School, wasn’t it?”

Larry poured an irritatingly precise amount of sugar into the cup. “So, it wasn’t the grades, the references, the school, or my exuberant personality,” she summarized, stirring. House sighed and leaned on his cane. Surely the painkillers should have taken effect by now. “And I don’t have a criminal record, so...”

She looked up at him, green eyes expectant as she held out the coffee cup. “Okay, fine, you want to know why I hired you?” he conceded. “I hired you because you were pretty. Don’t drop that,” he added when he saw the cup slip a bit. He grabbed it and immediately turned his back, returning to his desk. “This is disgusting, by the way,” House added, after taking a sip that was disgustingly perfect.

He had reached his desk and started to settle back into his chair by the time she followed him. “Why did you _really_ hire me?” Larry asked again, slightly peeved by this point.

House frowned up at her. “I told you. You were pretty. Chase is pretty, too, of course, but _you’re_ pretty in the sort of way that _I_ enjoy looking at.” She still seemed confused. “Am I not making myself clear?”

“Why would...” She let the sentence trail off helplessly.

He settled back to allow the theory he’d worked up to flow out more easily. “Good-looking women don’t usually go to medical school,” House began authoritatively. “You could have married rich or been a model or just showed up and people would have given you stuff. Lots of stuff,” he added. Larry blinked at him. “But instead you went to medical school, somewhere, and worked hard to get your degree. Or rather, sort of hard, since you _did_ have just a three-point-five. My point is, you didn’t have to even do that. Yet you did. So I have to wonder _why_. What inside that twisty little brain of yours made you want to handle other people’s bodily fluids and tell them they’re going to die when you could be shaking your a-s on a beach in Miami and making the same money?”

She was staring at him now, mouth slightly open, and House wondered if, for once, he had really and truly p----d her off. If so, a p----d-off Larry wasn’t nearly as terrifying as he had imagined. He made an exaggerated expression indicating he was waiting for her response.

Larry crossed her arms in front of herself, uncrossed them, shuffled her footing, all of which House found satisfyingly flustered. Finally she cleared her throat and said, “There’s just one problem with your theory.”

“I knew it!” he replied quickly. “You didn’t _really_ go to medical school. You’ve just been learning medicine in the evenings by flipping through some of those Time Life books, right?”

“I’m not pretty.” House rolled his eyes and leaned back in his chair. “No, really,” Larry insisted. “Marry some rich guy? Be a model? That’s not anything I could have done.”

“Oh, G-d, don’t go the ‘coy’ route, please,” he snapped. “I’m not going to give you any _specific_ compliments or rate you on a scale of one to Angelina Jolie if you pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about.”

“Okay,” she tried, “how about, no one’s ever told me I was pretty before?”

House narrowed his eyes in suspicion, but her manner seemed reasonably truthful. “You never had a _boyfriend_?” he demanded. Suddenly it occurred to him this might be a good time to pry for personal information—which he only liked when people didn’t want to give it to him, or when he thought he could use it against them someday. “Or were they just all blind?”

“Of course I’ve had boyfriends,” Larry confirmed. “But, hello, _bias_!” House raised an eyebrow. “Everyone looks beautiful in the eyes of love. Then you break up, and you realize the two of you were not exactly underwear models.”

“So your boyfriends were not blind, just jerks,” House concluded. “Well, I’m _not_ in love with you, and I think you’re beautiful. So, there you go.” For some reason he found that a spot on his desktop was infinitely more deserving of his focus than the woman he’d just upgraded from ‘pretty’ to ‘beautiful.’

“Well... thank you,” Larry replied, after a moment, sounding mostly sincere.

“You know, most people would be offended by that answer,” he couldn’t help but point out.

She frowned. “Did you _want_ me to be offended?” she asked. “I mean, were you lying just so I _would_ be—“

“No.”

There was a pause, unusually awkward, as Larry stood in front of the desk and House sat behind it, staring determinedly at his half-empty coffee cup. “Okay,” she said finally. “So is this okay, or should I wear more make-up or different clothes...”

“What?” House was mystified by the question and slightly irritated with her continued presence.

“Well, if you hired me to be pretty,” Larry reasoned, and for the life of him House could not detect any snideness or sarcasm in her tone, “it wouldn’t be good for me to come in with baggy clothes or bad make-up, so...”

“I didn’t hire you to _be_ pretty,” House explained, finding the whole conversation had taken an unpleasantly surreal and uncomfortable turn. “I hired you because you _are_ pretty. So”—he gestured vaguely at her—“whatever you usually do is fine.”

“Oh.” Pause. “Because I can do tests and research and whatever whether I’m wearing a lot of make-up or no make-up, nice clothes or casual clothes. It’s not like I’m insecure or anything.”

House glared at her. “Are you toying with me now?”

Larry smiled a little. “You’re the one who said you hired me because I was pretty.”

“Go away now,” he told her grouchily. He had had all the heart-to-heart he could stand at one time, which granted wasn’t much. Later on he could discuss with Wilson whether he was being played or not. Of course that meant he would have to _tell_ Wilson that’s why he’d hired her.

“Okay,” Larry agreed, becoming more cheerful. She headed for the door but paused before leaving. “Thank you, Dr. House.” He ignored her in favor of his retrieved comic book.       

 

_Some time later..._

“Wait, wait, let me get this straight,” Wilson continued, savoring the moment. House sighed and steeled himself for the mockery. “So you gave her _three_ times the amount of work, hoping to induce a nervous breakdown... and instead she went home ‘sick,’ leaving _you_ with _four_ times the amount of work.” House couldn’t glare at his friend, because Wilson was after all correct, so he glared at a passing nurse venomously. “And since you oh-so-cleverly assigned Chase and Foreman to Surgery for the week, you’ll have to do all those reports yourself or Cuddy will be on your a-s.”

“How do you know _that_ wasn’t my plan all along?” House grumbled, adjusting his bag on his shoulder.

“This is truly diabolical,” Wilson added, with no little amount of admiration. Seeing House’s expression, which so clearly accused him of disloyalty, the oncologist suggested half-heartedly, “Maybe she’s having her nervous breakdown... at home?”

House rolled his eyes. “I doubt it. The woman is chilled steel. Anyway, the point was to have it _here_ , where I could watch.”

“How thoughtless of her,” Wilson commented dryly. “My G-d, I can’t believe someone would be that heartless.”

“It’s passive-aggressive,” House countered irritably. “It’s non-confrontational. If she has a problem with the way I do things, she should _tell_ me that, not... run home and curl up in bed sobbing.”

“Yes, clearly she’s the one at fault here,” Wilson agreed facetiously. “Because everyone knows how reasonably you respond when someone says they disagree with you.”

“You may _think_ you’re being clever,” House told him snidely, “but I can tell from your tone you don’t _quite_ mean what you say.”

Wilson suddenly realized he had followed House into the lobby on the main floor. “Wait, where are you going?” he asked, as his friend continued to limp towards the doors.

“I’m going to her house, to see if she’s really sick.”

Wilson rolled his eyes. “I thought you had all that work to do!”

“Oh, it’ll get done,” House promised, an evil glint in his eye. “ _After_ I’ve caught her in her little lie and guilted her into coming back in.”

“You’re really very childish, you know?” Wilson called to House’s back as the other man left the building.

 **

The redhead was slightly surprised—but not really shocked—when she opened her door and saw her boss standing in the hallway of her apartment building. Holding multiple bags, no less, which were probably quite awkward to balance with the cane. She didn’t bother trying to help him, just crossed her arms and leaned against the doorjamb, raising an eyebrow expectantly.

House, meanwhile, was taking in her outfit—a purple striped sweater and red plaid pajama pants—with mild horror. “I guess you really _are_ sick,” he conceded slowly. “Or at least your fashion sense is ill.”

“Gee, I hope it’s not contagious,” Larry deadpanned. “I would hate to think what would happen if _you_ started showing up to work in wrinkled jackets, inappropriate t‑shirts, torn jeans—“

House narrowed his eyes at her, since he was of course wearing just such an ensemble at the moment. “You know, part of me wants to be _hurt_ at that kind of talk,” he began, and she rolled her eyes, “but the bigger part, the _better_ part, understands that I need to make allowances for you. Because you’re _sick_.”

“What are you doing here?” she finally asked, giving up on containing a slight smile.

“I’ve brought you food,” he replied, hoisting the bags. “So you won’t starve during your recuperation.” He pushed past her into the apartment and she rolled her eyes and shut the door behind him. After glancing around, House determined where the kitchen was and headed towards it purposefully.

“Come in. Make yourself at home,” Larry muttered, following him. “I’m sure greasy Chinese food is just perfect for sick people to eat,” she added, watching him unpack the white paper boxes on her kitchen table.

“What do you think sick Chinese people eat?” he replied innocently. “I have also brought entertainment...”

“You know, it’s weird enough having my boss in my apartment,” Larry told him mischievously. “But I think you doing a striptease for me would be a little over-the-top.”

House gave her a look of genuine surprise—something she didn’t get much from him and had learned to savor—then narrowed his eyes and pushed another bag towards her across the table. “DVDs,” he clarified. _Oh_ , she mouthed, feigning disappointment about the striptease. He gave her a look that suggested mild rebuke, ruined somewhat with amusement. “ _Ronin_ and _Pitch Black_. I’ll let you fast-forward through the gory parts, but only because of your delicate condition. And because you’re a girl.”

Larry confirmed the contents of the bag. “You know, you really should have called first,” she pointed out, watching House hobble around the kitchen opening random cabinets in search of plates.

“Why?” he questioned. “You’re _sick_. It’s not like you had plans to go out.” His expression dared her to contradict him somehow.

“I already _own_ _Ronin_ and _Pitch Black_ ,” she explained instead. “You could have saved yourself a couple bucks.”

 **

The next morning Foreman was pleasantly surprised to smell the coffee brewing when he pushed through the doors of the office. Since House would never make his _own_ coffee, that could only mean—“Hey, Larry,” he greeted the redhead who sat typing at the table.

“Good morning,” she replied, giving him a quick smile before focusing on her paperwork.

“Larry!” Chase joined Foreman by the coffee maker. “I heard you called in sick yesterday. Feeling better?”

“Yeah, just a twenty-four hour thing,” she assured them. “It resolved itself. I thought you guys were in Surgery the rest of the week?”

“Dirger gave us ten minutes for coffee,” Foreman answered, rolling his eyes. “He is _definitely_ as bad as House in full-blown puzzler mode.”

“Only not as funny,” Chase added, pouring sugar in his coffee.

“What are you working on over there?” the neurologist asked, after a moment had passed in silence.

Larry glanced up briefly. “My quarterly report,” she told him neutrally.

The other two doctors’ faces registered surprise and disgust. “D—n!” Chase exclaimed. “Those aren’t due _again_ , are they?”

“Every quarter,” the redhead responded cheerfully. “End of the week.”

Foreman sighed. “D—n. We’re stuck in Surgery every night ‘til ten. How are we supposed to get those done?” He dropped heavily in a chair at the table, contemplating the unpleasant prospect of several nights spent staring at a glowing computer screen until one or two am, followed by scrubbing up promptly at seven.

“Well, good morning, my little ducklings,” House exclaimed, sweeping into the office with an unusual spring in his step. “So nice to see the flock together again. No more nasty _avian flu_ , hmmm?” He directed the last comment pointedly at Larry and continued on to the coffeepot.

The redhead smirked a little but kept her eyes on the computer while Chase rolled his. Foreman just gave House his patented ‘crazy man’ gaze. “You’re kind of _chipper_ this morning,” he accused.

“Just the normal attitude of a man in the healthy, lustful prime of his life,” House responded glibly, pouring a mug of coffee for himself. “Except for the bum leg thing,” he added dubiously. Turning to lean against the sink, he surveyed his domain and decided things were too quiet. “I just hope I didn’t catch some plague from you last night,” he commented indiscreetly, narrowing his gaze at Larry.

Chase and Foreman’s eyes went wide at this piece of information, but Larry quickly responded, in a wistful tone, “I hope not either. This gonorrhea is really putting a crimp in my sex life.”

House choked on the sip of coffee he’d taken and ended up spitting it across the floor. Chase and Foreman went into shock a second time, then dared to start laughing. Larry looked just the tiniest bit smug.

“So, how’s your report coming?” she asked Chase innocently, before House had ceased coughing in the background. “You want me to take a look at it?”

The blond started to agree enthusiastically when their boss cut him off. “Chase can do his own d—n paperwork!” House snapped, wiping his mouth ungraciously on his sleeve. “Foreman, too. Get them in by the end of the week. And... get back to Surgery!”

Chase and Foreman retreated from the office, smirking despite the increase in their workload. House glared at their backs and then the small puddles of coffee on the floor at his feet, coming to the sudden and rather disquieting realization that Dr. Lawrence had gotten exactly what she wanted from him, yet again.           

 

_A little bit later..._

“...latest issue of _Pathology_?” Chase asked, taking a sip of coffee and digging through his pile of mail. “There was this article on using imoxydialziline to treat a resistant form of immunodeficiency-causing _Levishmanii_...”

“Yeah, I saw that,” Foreman replied, slitting open a letter. Another invitation to speak at a conference—normally he’d be honored, but he had learned from experience it was only a ploy to get his boss to attend. The boss who would never give him time off to _give_ the presentation anyway. “I’m not sure if I trust the results, though. The CHEM-7 stats weren’t exactly definitive.”

“Well, they never are with this kind of treatment,” Chase countered. He turned towards the third person at the table. “Larry, you’re the immunologist. What did you think about it?”

The redhead looked up from her vacant perusal of a flyer for aloe-containing exam gloves. “Hmmm? Oh, I haven’t read it yet.” Chase and Foreman’s eyebrows went up. Usually Larry had the whole issue read, synthesized, and summarized for the rest of them within a few days of publication. She offered them a tight smile. “I’m behind on my _Entertainment Weekly_ s, so...”

The other two doctors shook their heads and went back to checking their mail. Larry had started sorting it for them in the mornings, figuring she might as well if she were doing House’s anyway. The only downside noticed by Chase and Foreman seemed to be the realization that so much of their correspondence was actually junk.

Chase pulled out a letter with a frown, read the name again, and handed it to Foreman. “It’s yours,” he commented. “Wrong pile I guess.” Larry didn’t look up at them, and Chase shrugged it off.

The office door banged as their boss limped in, dropping his bag on his desk and heading straight for the bubbling coffee pot. “Good morning,” Foreman told him facetiously as House ignored them in favor of a shot of caffeine.

“It’s not good _yet_ ,” the older man corrected grumpily, pulling a mug off the drying rack near the sink and filling it. He took a sip, already prepared to bask in the pleasant warmth of chemical stimulation, when—“What the h—l is this?!” House demanded, spitting his mouthful of coffee back into the cup and facing the three doctors with an accusatory glare.

Larry looked up from her mail with a tense expression. “The store was out of the blend you like, so I had to get something else,” she explained, voice strained.

“Oh, you _had_ to get something else,” House repeated peevishly, dramatically dumping his coffee down the drain. Chase rolled his eyes, Foreman shook his head with a smirk, and Larry dropped her eyes to the tabletop, jaw tightening. “Yes, it’s so terrible that there’s not another _store_ in this entire _city_ that sells something as exotic as coffee—“

“Well if you don’t like it,” Larry snapped, standing up so fast her chair nearly tipped over, “why don’t you make your own d—n coffee?!” She fled the room, leaving the three men staring after her in shock.

After a moment House asked sharply, “What did you two do to her before I got here?” Chase and Foreman just shrugged helplessly. “Normally she’s freakishly even-tempered...” The younger two doctors exchanged a glance as their boss slipped into analytical mode. “So what’s changed?”

“Maybe you’ve just complained about her coffee once too often,” Foreman suggested, a slight note of reproach in his voice.

House made a face of derision at him and turned to the whiteboard, picking up a marker. “I complain about her coffee every day,” he reminded them. “We’re looking for an acute cause.”

“Well, you could just _ask_ her what’s wrong,” Chase commented, twirling his pen.

“She would just lie and say everything was fine,” House countered, “so we of the chauvinistic male establishment wouldn’t think she was a soft, squishy _girl_ who ought to be at home baking cookies instead of cutting people open.” Foreman rolled his eyes. “So come on, people. Differential diagnosis for ‘make your own d—n coffee’.” House wrote the phrase across the top of the whiteboard.

“PMS,” Chase threw out immediately.

The other two looked at him. “PMS?” Foreman repeated with disapproval. “Are you serious?”

“Why not?” Chase asked defensively. “It’s a whole range of dramatic hormonal changes that have been medically documented to cause—“

“Blah blah blah,” House interrupted, writing ‘PMS’ on the board. “Score one for the chauvinistic male establishment. Let’s only allow her to cut people open on certain days of the month.”

“Maybe she’s just having personal problems,” Foreman said. “We really shouldn’t be sitting here discussing—“

“Oh sure we should.” House wrote ‘personal problems’ on the board. “But that’s a pretty broad range of issues. Any subcategories?”

Foreman sighed and gave in. “Family issues. Money issues.”

“Ooh, maybe she’s in too deep to her bookie and he’s threatened to break her kneecaps,” House proposed gleefully.

“Maybe she’s having problems with her boyfriend,” Chase put forward.

“She doesn’t have a boyfriend,” House corrected dismissively.

Foreman and Chase shared a glance. “What makes you think that?” the Aussie pressed, a hint of teasing in his voice. He and Foreman had a theory about a certain limping, misanthropic doctor’s unusual affection for one of his employees—and not one of his _male_ employees, either.

“Because I watch the webcam in her bedroom and she’s more of a solo artist,” House shot back, with just enough meanness to let the others know they’d hit a nerve. That was one point for the theory, then.

“But _maybe_ ,” Chase continued unwisely, “maybe she _has_ got a boyfriend, but she doesn’t want to tell any of us about him, because, I don’t know, one of them might get into trouble or something”—Foreman rubbed the bridge of his nose, realizing the only one who’d be getting into trouble any time soon was Chase—“and she’s having problems with him but doesn’t have anyone to talk to.”

“Oh my gosh!” House exclaimed in his painful imitation of a vapid teenage girl. “I _knew_ it! Larry _totally_ has a crush on the new gym teacher! Well, he _is_ a major hottie.” He narrowed his eyes at Chase. “Get me a cup of coffee.”

“I thought it wasn’t the right blend,” the blond protested, rising nonetheless.

“The store was _out_ of the right blend,” House pointed out tolerantly. “What was she supposed to do, drive across town looking for a certain kind of coffee?”

“All I’m saying is,” Chase went on, handing a cup to his boss, “if you don’t know for _sure_...”

“Fine,” House conceded shortly. He wrote ‘boyfriend’ on the board under the category of ‘personal problems.’ After checking to make sure that a slightly smug Chase had seen it, House X’d it out. He took a sip of the coffee and shuddered only slightly at the taste.

“Maybe she’s just tired,” Foreman suggested.

“Maybe she’s pregnant.” House sighed without turning around. “You don’t need a boyfriend to get pregnant,” Chase added. “Maybe it was a one-night stand.”

“It’s really starting to disturb me how much thought you’ve given Larry’s personal life,” House commented. “Do you go through her trash, too?”

Foreman made noises of indignation. “ _You’re_ the one doing a differential diagnosis on one little comment she made that _you_ didn’t like!” he pointed out.

“It’s not ‘one little comment’,” House corrected patronizingly. “It’s one little comment that is completely out of character. Plus the whole ‘jumping up and running out of the room’ thing. Also the whole ‘crying in the ladies’ room’ thing. Atypical behavior.”

“Wait a minute,” Chase interjected. “How do you know she’s crying in the ladies’ room? Maybe she’s just mad and went... outside to cool off.”

House stared him down. “There were tears in her eyes when she left,” he pointed out, a little too quietly. “Also she turned to the left, and unless she was planning on running past the nurses’ station sobbing—“

“—she’d stop at the ladies’ room down the hall,” Foreman sighed. “Maybe she’s coming down with a cold or something.”

“Maybe she’s on drugs.” House made a face that seemed to implore, _Why am I saddled with this idiot?_ “It’s a legitimate suggestion!” Chase protested.

House popped the top on his prescription bottle and swallowed a couple of Vicodin with his coffee. “A doctor with a drug problem?” he asked, mock-horrified. “What a dark, yet original, mind you’ve got, Dr. Chase.”

 **

Larry waited a couple hours before venturing back into the office—there were a few papers she still needed to file about their last case and some sample clean-up in the lab, so she was doing real work... she just didn’t want to do it around her colleagues whom she’d embarrassed herself in front of earlier in the day. Was it wrong to hope that they got a new case soon that took all their time and energy, so Chase and Foreman might forget about her little temper tantrum? She knew better than to hope that _House_ forgot, at any rate.

The first thing she noticed when she slipped back into the empty conference room was the whiteboard covered with writing, and she began to think that maybe they _did_ have a case—until she started reading through the symptoms and possible causes. Then she felt her eyes starting to tear up again, although for a more positive reason than before.

There was a movement in the doorway to House’s office and she saw him leaning there, swinging his cane from his fingertips, watching her. “You did a differential diagnosis on me,” she commented, smiling as she examined the board.

“It was Chase and Foreman’s idea,” the older man replied quickly, but in a careful tone. “I think they’re obsessed with you. Might want to consider a restraining order.”

“You guys are so sweet,” she replied, and House heard nothing but sincerity—and a few fresh tears—in her voice.

“Well, it was actually _my_ idea,” he corrected immodestly.

“I see you’ve crossed out ‘boyfriend’ and ‘pregnant’,” she sniffed, with some amusement. He squirmed a bit. “But you left in ‘PMS’ and ‘drugs.’”

“Chase suggested those. You know how brilliant he is.”

There was silence for a moment as Larry sighed and leaned back against the table. “I’m sorry I... whatever,” she apologized, unwilling to dignify the incident with a label like ‘lost my temper.’ “I...”

House snorted and moved closer suddenly, hobbling across the room towards her. “Don’t say it won’t happen again,” he ordered, with some sharpness, “because I’ll know you’re lying and that will just p—s me off.”

She had to smile a little at that. Of course it wasn’t the loss of her composure he objected to—it was any insinuation that he was stupid or polite enough to accept a meaningless promise to never do it again. “I wasn’t going to say that,” she assured him.

He stopped right next to her and waited for her to continue. When she didn’t, he prompted in a lighter tone, “So which is it?” He nodded towards the board. “If you owe a lot of money to the Mob, I know a plastic surgeon who could help change your identity.”

“It’s my mom,” she answered simply. “She has lung cancer. She told me about three weeks ago.”

House sighed. “And you thought we’d all be too sad and distracted to do our jobs if you told us? Very thoughtful of you.”

“ _Don’t_ be nice to me,” Larry told him suddenly, tears starting to overflow. “You’re using the ‘nice voice,’ and I just don’t think I can...”

She started sobbing in earnest—normally something House hated and didn’t know how to deal with. But this was—Larry, who had watched stupid movies with him and gone for Chinese food at 2am, who put up with his c—p better than anyone except Wilson, and it seemed very natural to at least reach out and touch her arm, let her know that she wasn’t standing in that room crying alone. From there somehow she was leaning against his shoulder, leaving tearstains on his jacket, hanging on to him like she was drowning and he was the only stable thing in the universe. He leaned on his good leg as his arms went around her.

“You’re not just using this as an excuse to take a lot of time off work, are you?” he asked after a few moments. She knew he meant, _Take all the time you need off work._

She sniffled and smiled a little. “As long as you’re not using it as an excuse to hug me.”

“D—n,” he muttered. “I thought this plan was foolproof.”

 **

“There is _no_ way you saw House _hugging_ her,” Foreman insisted. “House does not _hug_.”

“Well, he certainly wouldn’t hug you or me,” Chase agreed as the two of them headed down the hall. “But there they were, right in the conference room. Fortunately his back was to me so I could sneak away.”

“Yeah, otherwise you’d probably have a big red mark in the shape of a cane across your face,” Foreman smirked. “Are you _sure_ they were hugging?”

“Well, they weren’t kissing or anything,” Chase clarified. “They were just standing there, holding each other. Like two nice, normal people.”

“Which they definitely aren’t.”

A pretty Latina nurse smiled at Chase as they passed. “Here, I’ll show you what they were doing,” he offered suddenly. “Marisa!” The woman stopped and turned back to them. “Do you have a minute? Could you help me with a little demonstration for my colleague here?”

Foreman covered his grin with his hand. Trust Chase to use any creative excuse he could to flirt with a woman. “Right, so, you stand there...” The Aussie arranged the nurse in position as she smiled in bemusement. “Now, just put your head on my shoulder, and your arms around me.”

“Is this a medical procedure?” she asked flirtatiously, following his directions.

Chase slipped his arms around her waist and pulled her close. “Not precisely,” he admitted. “But it _is_ work-related.”

Foreman tried to get past the picture of Chase embracing a lovely young woman in the hallway and replace it with House and Larry. It just wasn’t working—his mind was saying ‘does not compute.’ Although the sudden appearance of House himself—ominously looming over Chase with a glare that could melt plastic—helped with the imagery. Marisa pulled back immediately.

“Isn’t there a bedpan somewhere you could be emptying?” he asked the nurse nastily, and she scurried off.

 

_Later still..._

“...but on the upside, she’s been pathologically polite so far, so you’ll probably get another ten bucks today,” Wilson finished ruefully.

House didn’t look up from the timesheets he was signing at the front desk. “Why, Dr. Wilson, keeping track of every time a patient thanks you for telling them they’re dying? That’s _very_ cynical of you.”

“Not to mention expensive,” the oncologist sighed. Unlike his friend he really _did_ feel badly telling certain truths to his patients. But one had to deal with it _somehow_. He was about to comment further when someone passing by caught his eye—and not in the usual sense of a pretty woman causing inappropriate thoughts. “Wasn’t that Larry?” he asked in confusion, turning back to House. The older man was watching her stride to the elevators but quickly dropped his gaze when she turned back to glance at them.

“I’m not sure, you know how bad I am with names,” House replied.

“She didn’t even say hello.” Wilson craned his neck over House’s shoulder and saw that he was done with the timesheet and was just circling his pen aimlessly over the form. “Come on, what are you waiting for?”

“The next elevator car.” There was a _ding!_ , then the small crowd of people gathered around the elevators, including Larry, entered the car. “All clear. Okay, we can go.” With that House began limping purposefully towards the elevators.

“Why did you want to be in the next car?” Wilson asked, completely mystified.

“I was hoping we’d end up alone,” his friend answered snidely. “You’re not too young to remember the philosopher Tyler extolling the virtues of ‘love in an elevator,’ are you? Going up as you’re going down?”

Wilson heaved an exasperated sigh and glanced around at the other hospital personnel who had started to converge at the same spot. Fortunately most of them did not appear to be paying attention. “Yesterday you and Larry were best pals—“

“Oh, don’t worry Jimmy, you’ll always be my bestest pal _ever_ ,” House interrupted. He gave the younger man a painfully fake-earnest look. “BFF?”

Wilson ignored him, with patience born of long years of practice. “—and today she didn’t say hello to you, and you don’t want to ride in the same elevator car with her.”

“Has anyone ever told you that you have a wonderful gift for taking things that are, oh, what’s the word, _obvious_ ,” House began as they entered the elevator, “and restating them in a completely _unoriginal_ way?”

“You have. Many times.”

They rode in silence for a few moments, Wilson occasionally glancing at House and waiting. “Okay, fine,” the older man finally said. “If you’re going to _beat_ it out of me...” The elevator reached their floor—or rather, House’s floor—and they both stepped off. “We had an argument,” he admitted grudgingly. “Last night.”

“I can hardly imagine what an argument between the two of you looks like,” Wilson responded dryly. “Do you just sit there tensely, giving each other meaningful looks, until someone eventually snaps and... _sighs_?” House rolled his eyes. “What were you arguing about?” his friend prodded. “Or do you even know?”

“The... Stacy... thing,” the older man answered reluctantly.

Bemused and fully prepared to start smirking, Wilson summarized, “So, you broke up with the woman whom you are _not_ dating over the affair you’re _not_ having with your _ex_ -girlfriend.”

“You see, there you go again with that special little gift of yours—“

“You know, sometimes I have to restate the obvious so that the _oblivious_ will finally understand it.” House glared at him as he limped down the hall, but it was a weak glare. “Let me do it again,” Wilson continued and his friend rolled his eyes. “Stacy—beautiful, intelligent, hates you, married. Larry—beautiful, intelligent, loves you, unmarried.”

“She doesn’t love me,” House assured him quickly, then added, “And the other one doesn’t hate me.”

“They’re both just ambiguous at this point?” Wilson guessed. “Trying to figure out if you’re worth the not-inconsiderable trouble you’ve caused them, and will undoubtedly _continue_ to cause them in the future?”

They paused at the door to House’s office. Foreman, Chase, and Larry were already there, with the redhead at the sink making coffee. Everything _appeared_ to be normal. “This is why I like talking to you,” House told his friend. “Because you really help raise my self-esteem.” He squinted through the glass walls, trying to remain at least partially obscured by the vertical blinds. “She’s probably putting strychnine in my coffee.”

“I’ll be sure to mention that to the medical examiner, when they do the autopsy,” Wilson assured him, not bothering to conceal his amusement.

“Thanks. You’re a pal.”

 **

“This is getting ridiculous,” Foreman sighed, heaping some lettuce on his plate in the cafeteria. “They haven’t been speaking for two weeks.”

“Yes, but it’s surprisingly _not_ awkward, isn’t it?” Chase observed, taking a second slice of pie. “I mean, they still talk about treatments and stuff. Sometimes.”

“You mean, Larry offers an opinion, House ignores it, then _you_ say what Larry just said, and House praises you—insincerely, I might add,” Foreman pointed out as they approached the cashier.

“Well, at least _I’m_ not the one getting treated like c—p anymore,” the Aussie decided. “Larry gets assigned all the nasty tests, all the boring research—“

“Hey, you and I still had to break into that guy’s house last week looking for hazardous substances,” the other man countered as he paid for his lunch. “I could’ve done without the potential of tripping over his secret meth lab or something.”

Chase rolled his eyes and offered the cashier a twenty. “Well he’s not going to send her somewhere _dangerous_ ,” he assured Foreman. “He still wants to get back together with her. Having her collect samples from someone’s seeping gonorrhea is one thing, but getting blown up in a meth lab explosion—that would _really_ p—s her off. And then, House _definitely_ wouldn’t get any.”

Foreman picked up his tray. “Wow, if only there were laws that said employers couldn’t treat people differently based on whether they wanted to have sex with them... What _kind_ of law would that be, do you think? I mean, what would we even call it?”

Chase smirked in spite of himself. “Well, I don’t hear Larry complaining.”

“No, you wouldn’t.” Foreman shook his head. “She _won’t_ complain. We’ll just walk into the office one day to find her sitting there, calmly doing paperwork, with House slumped over his desk, a knife embedded in his back.”

“Well, we can only hope.”

 **

“What?” House demanded impatiently.

Cuddy made him wait an extra two seconds while she signed a form, then gazed up at him steadily. “I haven’t gotten any reports or e-mails about your cases for two weeks,” she informed him coolly.

He blinked. “Do you _ever_ get reports or e-mails about my cases?” he asked with some confusion. “Except the ones you beat out of me each quarter?”

“I do,” Cuddy assured him. “Almost every day. Except, none for two weeks.” House narrowed his eyes, analytical mind ticking through her statements. The hospital administrator stood and ended his labyrinthine mental path. “Dr. Lawrence usually sends them to me.”

House’s jaw tightened—it was subtle, but Cuddy was pleased she noticed it. “Well, if _Dr. Lawrence_ isn’t doing her job, why don’t you call _her_ in here? Or, I don’t know, _fire her_?”

“You really want me to fire her?” Cuddy scoffed, heading for a filing cabinet to put her folder away. “Because _you_ can’t handle working with her after breaking up?”

House made an expression of exasperated indignation. “We were _never dating_!” he insisted, frustrated with having to clarify this to other people. “Why is it that half the doctors in this hospital can go around having secret affairs with nurses or _each other_ and never get caught, while _I_ am pegged for some kind of tragic romance that _never occurred_?!”

Cuddy raised an eyebrow at his rant. “What’s that phrase? ‘Protest too much’?”

House glared daggers at her. “Well, _whatever happened_ ”—Cuddy smirked and shook her head, poking at her paperwork again—“obviously it’s having a negative impact on _her_ job performance, since she isn’t sending you daily reports.”

“Sending me daily reports about your patients,” Cuddy began, in a slightly patronizing tone, “is actually _your_ job. Which Dr. Lawrence has been doing.” House sighed petulantly. “So if it doesn’t get done, it’s _your_ problem. And unless _you_ actually want to start doing _your_ job—which I know is asking a lot—you’d better make up with her.”

House fairly growled. “I _told_ you—“

“Right, you weren’t dating,” Cuddy interrupted dismissively. “Well, maybe you should start.” House gazed imploringly towards the heavens. “Ask her on a date. I’m sure she’d say yes.”

“Do you two communicate in some kind of _girl code_?” he asked snidely. “Do you use little flags you keep in your purse?”

“The lipstick tube doubles as a walkie-talkie,” Cuddy corrected flippantly. “But if you spread that around I’ll deny it. Now, Dr. House, I think you have Clinic Duty?”

 **

The end of the day, the end of a case—another life saved (just barely), another report filed (also just barely). “I could definitely use a couple of drinks right about now,” Chase sighed, picking up his jacket. “Anyone want to join me?”

“I could go for a couple,” Foreman agreed, grabbing his bag. “Larry? You in?”

Neither of them were surprised when she shook her head. “No, thanks. I’m going to go home and crash.” Not a big drinker, Larry.

Foreman smiled and shook his head, following Chase out the door. Good-nights were called all around, even to their boss who sat in his darkened office, aimlessly twirling his cane. It occurred to Foreman to extend the drink offer to him, but he thought better of it—he could really use some time _away_ from House, to b---h about how he had jeopardized all their careers _yet again_ , but also brought a patient back from the brink of death (yet again).

Larry made sure the coffeepot was off just one more time—she had fears of burning the hospital down with an overactive hotplate—and was just about to head out the door herself when she heard a noise from the other room... like a throat clearing. Against her better judgment she glanced back and saw House limping slowly across the floor. He paused in the doorway and made eye contact with her, briefly but with great resolve, then kept moving closer. Intrigued but wary, she decided to stand her ground. After three weeks of ‘the silent treatment’ that would put a pair of nine-year-olds to shame, Larry would readily admit she wished things could go back to the way they were before between them... however ambiguous and maddening that way was. But she also knew that at this point, going backwards was not only ill-advised but also impossible.

He stopped only a couple feet away, just inside her personal space, and she wanted to back up but forced herself not to. House cleared his throat again, leaned on his cane with both hands, looked anywhere but at her except for quick, appraising glances. “Do you want to go out to dinner?” he asked, slowly and painfully. Finally he looked directly at her, blue gaze piercing from behind dark eyelashes.

“No,” she told him, and she gave his face just an instant to start hardening before adding with a small smile, “But you can bring dinner over to my place if you want.”

He relaxed, but only fractionally, which was interesting, given that Larry thought that should have been the hard part. Instead he went back to the shifting glances. “Greasy Chinese food on the couch might not have the same... atmosphere as dinner at a nice restaurant,” he told her, obtusely and torturously.

 _Now_ she was confused. “What kind of atmosphere is that?” Her mind was just not up to its usual tricks and turns after this sort of day.

“That of a... date.” He met her gaze again and held it. She could see him waiting to get shot down, already anticipating exactly how painful it was going to be, and instead she smiled more.

“I think it could still have the atmosphere of a date,” Larry assured him, and some of the tension drained away from both of them. “But with the added bonus of me not getting cranky and tired while we waited for the check.”

He nodded. “Okay.” She suspected he was still a little shell-shocked by _not_ being shot through the heart.

“You won’t forget the crab rangoon?” she prompted gently, scooting a little closer.

“I couldn’t,” he assured her, watching her closely. “They give it to me even when I don’t ask for it. They probably have a sign up, something about the white guy with the cane and his fetish for crab—“

She had to lean up to kiss him, because he _was_ awfully tall, but it was just supposed to be a quick kiss—to let him know she was serious. Apparently he was worried about _her_ understanding that _he_ was serious, because the next thing she knew she was sitting on the table, her back at an acute angle to the tabletop and getting closer while her face experienced the _interesting_ sensation of ‘stubble-burn.’ Not that she was complaining, by any means.

“House, do you want to get a—Oh my G-d!”

“D----t, Wilson!” House snapped, glaring at his friend in the doorway. “Didn’t you see the sock on the doorknob?”

Larry reluctantly pushed House more upright, so her back wouldn’t have to maintain the rather impossible angle they’d stopped at. She knew her face must be bright red, from the blush as well as the stubble-burn, but fortunately Wilson wasn’t looking at her. Instead he held the patient folder he carried demurely in front of his face, as if he’d walked onto a scene likely to cause unimaginable trauma. “So, that would be a _no_ on dinner?” he asked innocently.

House started to roll his eyes and make some scathing comment, but Larry touching the side of his face startled him into silence. “Well, I don’t know,” she replied instead, speculatively. “Maybe you could join us. Just _how_ good of friends are you?”

“Not that good,” the two men replied, almost simultaneously, and Larry laughed. House grudgingly backed up and helped her to her feet, leaving her to wonder just how, exactly, she had ended up that far back on the table in the first place.

Wilson dared to peer over the top of his folder at them. “Good G-d, House, I suggested you ask her out on a _date_ , not... _do her on the table in your office_ ,” he sputtered.

“You’re right,” his friend agreed, too easily. “The table in _your_ office is much more comfortable. Come on.” He grabbed Larry’s hand and pulled her, snickering, out the door, leaving Wilson behind to shake his head and smile, just a little.

 

_Much, much later..._

“Muscle aches, fatigue, nausea,” House repeated, businesslike. “Any family history?” He made a faux-concerned face at his patient.

“Of nausea?” Larry asked acidly. “Wait, let me think... I think my Great-Aunt Agnes threw up once.”

“You have the flu,” House told her dismissively, wheeling his chair over to the countertop and reaching for his prescription pad.

“I don’t have the flu,” she countered, just as confidently. “I feel fine sometimes.”

“Well, then, the times that you feel _sick_ , you have the flu,” House clarified, scribbling something on the pad.

“What are you doing?” she asked, leaning precariously off the examination bench. “What are you prescribing me?”

House rolled his eyes. “Doctors make the _worst_ patients,” he muttered, loud enough for her to hear. “I’m prescribing what I always prescribe for the flu. Methamphetamine.”

“You can’t prescribe me anything!”

“Isn’t that why people go to their doctor-husbands?” he asked, mock confused. “To score drugs that unbiased doctors wouldn’t give them?” She glared. “It’s vitamins,” he assured her, ripping the script off and holding it out to her.

She refused to accept it. “I already take vitamins.”

“Obviously not enough,” he decided, dropping his arm with a sigh.

“Total strangers get fifteen different obscure conditions they might have”—another loud sigh from House—“and all I get is ‘the flu,’ which it clearly _isn’t_?”

“You are _so_ right,” he told her snidely, even though he could see her tensing. “I’m being an idiot. It’s obviously... a pet allergy. Oh, wait, we don’t _have_ any pets...”

“You’re such an a-s sometimes!” Larry snapped and House nodded, unashamed, in agreement. Then she started tearing up, and he really _did_ feel like an a-s.

“Look, honey,” he began, standing and limping over to her, “you’re just tired. I kept you up too late last night. Go home and take a nap.”

Unpacified, she glared up at him. “Sex with you does not usually make me vomit,” she pointed out.

“Well _there’s_ a stunning endorsement,” he replied sarcastically. “Maybe I could put it on my business cards. ‘Dr. Gregory House, Diagnostician. Sex with him will not make you vomit.’”

“I said _usually_ ,” she reminded him darkly.

He rolled his eyes. “The vomiting is probably from all that disgusting food you’ve been eating recently.”

“Pickles are _not_ disgusting!”

“Pickles,” he corrected patronizingly, “are the devil’s food. And you’ve been eating disgusting amounts of them. There’s only so much vinegar the body can—“

“Now you’re saying I eat too much!?”

“Oh for G-d’s sake—“

“Stop yelling at me!” Larry sobbed.

“I’m not yelling!” House countered loudly. “Just go home and get some sleep!”

“And you’re always telling me what to do—“

“I’m your boss!”

“And you’re my husband!” Larry sniffed. “You’re supposed to _care_ about me!”

House tried to take a deep breath, count to ten, unclench his fists. _I love my wife, I love my wife_ , he repeated in his head. _I love my wife. But if I have to put up with any more of this mood swing c—p—_ Great, he’d made her cry. Again. “Honey—“

Larry hopped down from the exam table and pushed past him to the door. “Go to h—l!” she shouted, ripping the door open and stomping out.

“Women make the _worst_ patients!” he shouted after her. The patients filling the waiting room all turned to stare at him—and they were, of course, predominantly female.

 **

“Thirty-two-year-old female,” House began, limping into the conference room. Chase looked up from his crossword puzzle and Foreman put aside his mail. House picked up a marker and started to write on the whiteboard. “Presents with nausea, muscle aches, fatigue.”

“It’s the flu,” Chase surmised with disinterest, going back to his crossword.

“That is a very _boring_ diagnosis,” House told him, snatching the newspaper out of his hand. “What _else_ could it be?”

“Has she been exerting herself lately?” Foreman asked.

“Mmmmm... yes,” House decided, somewhat guiltily.

“Could be heatstroke or dehydration.”

“She hasn’t been running a marathon,” the older man countered. “What else?”

“Why do you think it’s not the flu?” Chase persisted.

House sighed. “Her husband isn’t sick.”

“Maybe they just haven’t been in close contact—“ Foreman began.

“Oh, they’ve been in _very_ close contact,” House assured him obnoxiously, “because she is _really_ hot.”

Foreman rolled his eyes. “Those symptoms could be _anything_.”

“Okay,” House agreed, “then let’s sweeten the pot a little. Add in _irritability_ and _mood swings_.” He wrote them on the board with the other symptoms.

“Could be a neurological component then,” Foreman conceded. “Konner’s disease, myoastoploma—“

“Could be some other kind of infection,” suggested Chase. “Bacterial, viral, fungal—there’s no way to narrow it down until we get some blood cultures—“

House turned to make some remark, then stopped dead staring past the other two doctors with something akin to fear in his eyes. Chase and Foreman turned to see Larry standing in the doorway, looking as p----d as they’d ever seen her. And with all their years working for House, that was saying something.

“I’m _pregnant_ , you moron,” she spat, tossing a home pregnancy test stick on the table.

Foreman took one look at House’s expression—reminiscent of someone who had just been punched in the face—and muttered under his breath, “Time to go.” In seconds he and Chase had gathered up their files and beat it out the door.

Larry sighed, still exhausted, and dropped down into a vacated chair. Recovering somewhat, House glanced back over the list of symptoms and pointed out snidely, “You forgot to mention the whole ‘missed period’ thing.”

“Everybody lies,” she shot back pointedly.

He moved a little bit farther away, to the sink. “So, were you lying when you said you were on the Pill, or did you think poking holes in the condoms was okay because _technically_ , I didn’t ask you about that?”

“I am as surprised as you are,” she insisted defensively.

“Well, certainly not _as_ surprised,” he replied nastily. “Unless you just take a pregnancy test every couple of weeks for fun.”

“Okay, not as surprised as you _right now_ ,” Larry clarified testily. “But when I _first_ suspected—“

“And I _really appreciate_ how you came to me right then and told me all about it,” he snapped.

“I know, it was just silly of me to want to postpone _this_ beautiful moment,” she sighed.

But he wasn’t letting her off _that_ easily. “So, a couple months ago,” he began, in a particularly obnoxious tone, “when you said, ‘Do you want to have a baby’—“

“You said _no_ ,” she agreed, with exasperation.

“Actually,” he corrected patronizingly, “what I said was, ‘If I say no, will you just come up with a scheme to change my mind?’” Larry rolled her eyes. “And, see, by ‘change my mind,’ I thought you might somehow manage to persuade me that getting pregnant would be a good idea. Not just—get pregnant anyway.”

Larry opened her mouth, shrugged, turned her palms upwards in a gesture of exaggerated helplessness. House made his own exaggerated expression of waiting for her to say something profound in her own defense. “Oops,” she finally came up with.

“That’s it?” She nodded. “’Oops’? _Two_ forms of birth control and—“

“You know, in the sitcom, when this happens,” Larry began sharply, “the father-to-be goes into all this denial and calls the birth control pill company and yells at them for being only 99.9% effective, and he gets all the laughs.” House started to speak but she cut him off. “But the mother-to-be gets all the sympathy, because she’s the one with _a little person growing inside her_.”

They were both silent for a minute, glaring. Finally House sighed and allowed, grudgingly, “I _suppose_ arguing about it is somewhat beside the point at the moment...”

“No, no, the arguing is _good_ ,” Larry assured him snidely, “because otherwise I might think it was okay to go out and do this all the time.”

“Do you _have_ an obstetrician?” he asked, giving in. Not that he had any _choice_ but to give in—but he _did_ find that once he gave in, the next steps in the process became easier.

“Hartzman?” she suggested, putting her head down on the table.

House shook his head. “Hartzman is going to drop dead from a heart attack one of these days.”

Larry stared at him. “What? Hartzman has been my gynecologist for years.”

“Clubbing on the fingers, overweight, eats garbage fried in grease,” House told her dismissively. “Not a problem if she’s only checking under the hood a couple times a year”—Larry rolled her eyes—“but I don’t want it to happen when she’s holding...” He struggled for a moment and Larry raised her eyebrows encouragingly. “A baby,” he finished up. “That I have some interest in.”

Larry sighed and put her head back down in defeat, opening her eyes when she heard the characteristic rattle of a pill bottle being opened. “Is this a one- or two-Vicodin moment?” she asked dryly.

“Definitely two,” he replied, as if it should be obvious. “Actually it’s _three_ , but”—he stalled her when she started to speak—“I am only taking two, because someone informed me that the only true three-Vicodin moment should be a nuclear holocaust. Although I do hear a distinct _whistling_ sound in the air.”

“Could be the air trying to squeeze past your massive ego,” she suggested, less tartly than before. “Which I would think would be quite gratified to know that your genes were being passed on to the next generation.”

“Eugenics _is_ a beautiful thing,” he agreed. He limped over to the table, dragged a chair next to hers, and sat down. “Thierry would be a good choice,” he told her after a moment.

“OB/GYN?” House nodded. “Not incompetent, no major health problems?”

“Good doctor, good health,” he confirmed. “He _is_ cheating on his wife—“

“What?!”

“—but I might be able to use that in case I want any... special treatment, so...”

Larry sighed. Again. “I don’t even know what to say to that,” she confessed, but she was smiling, a little bit. Then she thought of something. “Wait a minute... How do you know so much about the Obstetrics department?”

“Wilson’s new _thing_ is a nurse practitioner there,” her husband answered defensively. “Gives me all the good gossip.” Larry gave him a hard stare until he finally confessed, “And, okay, I thought _maybe_ it would be useful, in case there was some kind of...” Larry raised an eyebrow. “Some kind of ‘oops,’” he finished up.

“You sure _you_ haven’t been the one poking holes in the condoms?” she asked with a bit of a smirk.

 

_A while later..._

“I’m sorry,” House told the patient before him somberly. “The parasite is continuing to grow. It’s leaching minerals and nutrients from your body to nourish itself. In a few months it will have developed enough to survive on its own and will have no need of the host body anymore. I’m afraid its exit will be... painful and dramatic.”

“Stop being an a-s,” Larry laughed, propping herself up on her elbows on the examination table.

House turned the ultrasound screen towards her. “Look, there’s the head,” he pointed out, running the ultrasound wand over her stomach. “It’s strange, isn’t it, how... human it looks. Almost as if it might someday turn to one of us and say... ‘Hey, Mom and Dad, can I borrow the car?’”

“At which point you’ll probably reply, ‘Sure, honey. Oh, you wanted the _keys_ to go with that? I don’t think so.’”

“Are you suggesting that I would be one of those _sarcastic_ parents?” House asked his wife, feigning hurt. “Oh, look, there’s the feet. How many are they supposed to have? Three?”

Larry tried to sit up more. “I don’t think you’re even supposed to be using this equipment unsupervised,” she pointed out.

“Stop moving,” he told her, watching the ultrasound picture jump around. “You’re jostling the creature. You’ll wake it. Perhaps it breathes fire,” House added in a musing tone.

“A fire-breathing fetus would probably make it too dangerous for us to have sex, then,” Larry decided matter-of-factly, and House was just about to make a quick reply when the exam room door opened, admitting the balding obstetrician.

Dr. Thierry’s eyes narrowed when he spotted House’s appropriation of the ultrasound equipment, but, he reflected, he _had_ been warned about this one. “Getting an early start, huh?” he asked in what he hoped was a light tone.

 

_Quite a while later..._

House sighed. “Okay, Cameron, _you_ tell him why he shouldn’t be here.”

The young immunologist looked at him with big, earnest eyes and replied, as he knew she would, “I _do_ think he should be here. Dr. Charles is a world-famous immunologist and an expert in TB.”

“Which will come in really handy if we need someone to say the words, ‘I think it’s TB,’” House pointed out snidely. “But fortunately, I have also called in _another_ world-famous immunologist to consult on this case. So we don’t need him.”

“In what way am I ‘world-famous’?” an amused voice asked from the doorway. Cameron and Dr. Charles turned to see a rather pregnant redhead in a labcoat standing there.

“There was that guy in England who knew your name,” House reminded her thoughtfully.

“Oh. Right.” She started across the conference room, heading for the empty seat on the far end of the table. Before she had gotten two steps, Dr. Charles solicitously stood and gestured to his chair.

“Here, have mine,” he offered. House glared at him.

The redhead raised an eyebrow and kept walking. “Thanks,” she told him, bemused, “but since you’re, you know, _sick_ , I’m going to sit way over there.” Cameron’s eyes widened fractionally as she and Dr. Charles exchanged dubious glances. House, however, smirked approvingly.

“Nice waddle,” he told the woman appreciatively as she pushed past him towards her seat next to Chase.

“Send your complaints to my husband,” she responded tartly, settling into a chair.

Foreman and Chase greeted her with enthusiasm. “Larry! Haven’t seen you for a while,” Foreman commented with a smile. “Granger keep you locked away in the lab?”

“Barefoot, pregnant, and chained to the lab bench,” she confirmed.

“Just like at home,” House interjected dryly.

Gazing at her bulging belly with a mixture of admiration and uncertainty, Chase started to exclaim, “J---s, Larry, you’re as big as a...” He trailed off, glancing painfully at his boss’s stare of disapproval.

“Thanks, Chase,” Larry told him sarcastically, but without malice. “I notice you guys only miss me when I’ve been gone for a while. Must be coffee withdrawal.”

“Alright, enough compliments,” House declared, turning back to the whiteboard. “We’ve got another idiot patient to diagnose.”

“It’s TB,” Dr. Charles stated definitively, with some exasperation.

House sighed loudly. “See, I already _told_ them you were an idiot,” he explained patronizingly, “so there was really no need for you to go ahead and demonstrate it right then.”

“You’re letting patients sit in on the differential now?” Larry asked with a smirk.

“ _Not_ my idea,” House assured her. “And it’s _not_ TB. The symptoms are too variable.”

“I agree, that’s what you’d think,” Dr. Charles began reasonably, “if you hadn’t seen thousands of cases like I have. These symptoms are well within the bounds of TB.”

“Nausea, fainting, dizziness, night sweats...” Larry read off the board. “Gosh, maybe _I_ have TB.”

Suddenly House sniffed loudly and asked, “What’s that smell?”

“Sorry,” Charles answered a little sheepishly. “It’s my body powder. It’s the only thing I’ve found that works in the Sahara. I don’t even notice the smell anymore.”

“Who else thinks it smells like an elephant dung smoothie?” House asked snidely.

“I think he smells fine,” Cameron interjected, and House rolled his eyes.

“This is exactly why the patient shouldn’t be in the room for the differential,” he grumbled. “If you can’t tell a man his cologne makes you want to vomit...”

“We should probably get a sample of that body powder,” Larry suggested, “check it for any exotic ingredients that could be causing an allergic reaction.”

“Doctor Molly Lawrence, right?” Charles asked with a charming smile.

Larry raised an eyebrow. “I guess I _am_ world-famous,” she replied cautiously.

“I’ve read some of the papers you’ve written,” Charles continued. “They’re very...” He appeared to struggle for an appropriate word. “...creative.” Larry’s other eyebrow went up. “But I’m afraid you guys are looking for something... _creative_ where it doesn’t exist. This is just garden-variety TB.”

Larry narrowed her eyes at him. “Then what are you doing here?” Charles gave her a puzzled look. “You’re the big TB expert,” she pointed out, somewhat facetious. “You say you’ve got TB, a not-unreasonable diagnosis considering who you hang around with all the time. So why don’t you just break into those crates of TB medication you cart around and treat yourself?” Her tone was not as nasty as House’s would have been, merely... curiosity mixed with some sarcasm. House turned his head dramatically towards Charles, as if watching a tennis match.

Charles sighed and ran a tired hand through his hair. “We’ve been over that,” he pointed out. “My corporate sponsors want a second opinion...”

“That’s what you get for being late,” House told the woman snidely. “We have to go through parts of the stupid explanation _again_.”

“Sorry,” she replied, without sincerity. “I was puking. Thought I should wait until I finished to join you guys.”

House gave her a stern look and warned, “Dr. Lawrence, pregnancy and bulimia do _not_ mix.” He turned back to the whiteboard. “Now, I want an echocardiogram, a stress test, an MRI—“

“None of which is necessary to diagnose TB,” Charles pointed out wearily.

“Gee, I wonder why I’m ordering them, then,” House asked obnoxiously.

Charles’s cell phone rang suddenly and House gave him an evil look as he answered it. “Yes, I’m feeling better,” he told the person on the other end. He covered the mouthpiece with his hand and whispered to the rest of the doctors, “CT scan on my lungs, sputum test, PPTH should do it.” He refocused on the person who had called him. “I’m so glad you’re concerned about me, Jerry. But you know what would _really_ help with my recovery? Another six crates of medication donated to the Foundation.” House was still glaring death and dismemberment at Charles, but when his three team members looked to him questioningly, he nodded as if encouraging them to follow the patient’s orders. Chase, Foreman, and Cameron followed Charles out of the room, at the last minute turning him in the proper direction for his room.

“Well, I can tell _this_ is going to be fun,” Larry commented to her husband, whose look would melt the glass separating the office from the hallway if it could.

“Smug, self-promoting, arrogant little son of a—“

“Don’t worry, sweetie,” Larry assured him. “I’ll always love you best, no matter _how_ many other smug, self-promoting, arrogant little SOBs come along.”

 

_A couple days later..._

“...lumbar puncture to check for infections, cardiomyogram, and...” House fixed Cameron with a punishing gaze. “...that MRI I asked for, like, two days ago.” The young doctor did her best sigh-in-exasperation-without-moving-any-muscles expression, then followed her colleagues out of the room to attend their boss’s orders.

As soon as the door had shut behind them Larry let out a flirtatious breath. “Have I ever told you how sexy you are when you do ‘doctor’ things?” she asked House.

“No need to tell me,” he replied, smirking a little as he limped closer. “You were staring at me, _lasciviously_ , all through the diagnosis.”

Larry’s eyes widened and her cheeks flushed. “Oh my G-d! Was it obvious?” she questioned, clearly embarrassed.

“Mmmm...” He considered it, gesturing for her to sit on the edge of the conference table. “Probably not to the people... _downstairs_.”

The redhead sighed, resigned herself to the mortification, and decided to make the best of the situation by pulling her husband closer. “It’s just... your shirt,” she told him, sliding her hands up his arms.

He glanced down at the tattered red t-shirt. “Well, Red Dragon _is_ pretty sexy,” he allowed dubiously.

She pushed his sleeves back a little, squeezing his biceps. “G-d, when do you find time to work out?” Larry demanded. House grinned, clearly enjoying the attention. Her voice soon contained a hint of whine, however. “And why do _I_ have to look like a beached whale?” she pouted.

“I think,” he theorized, leaning in to kiss her, “that me working out”—she bit his earlobe as he nuzzled her neck—“is directly correlated to you looking like a beached whale.”

“I knew it was all your fault,” Larry agreed, before they started making out in earnest.

At least for a couple minutes. “My G-d, do you two have _no_ self-control?” Wilson admonished, walking into the conference room.

“I think that was clearly established after the Linen Closet Incident,” House pointed out, just barely coming up for air.

“Don’t mention that,” Larry insisted tartly. “That was very embarrassing for me.”

“Almost as embarrassing as my team seeing you undress me with your eyes,” he teased, and Wilson rolled his eyes as he walked past them.

“It’s like being around a couple of teenagers,” he sighed, then amended thoughtfully, “Well, more like, _one_ teenager, and the nasty, grizzled old science teacher.”

“Don’t worry, honey,” House told his wife quickly. “I don’t think you’re grizzled.” He heard Wilson making noise near the sink and turned to look at him. “What are you doing in here, anyway?”

“I heard Larry was making your coffee again,” Wilson replied, pouring himself a cup. “I thought I would help myself.”

House frowned at his friend. “Is that a euphemism?”

“Yes,” Wilson agreed dryly. “For having coffee. And,” he added, “I was going to invite one or both of you to lunch.” He started for the door quickly. “But I can see you’re otherwise engaged, so...”

At the mention of food House found his attention divided. “Wait a minute,” he called to Wilson, then looked between his friend and his wife indecisively.

Larry taunted him mercilessly. “You have lunch with Wilson every day,” she pointed out.

“Well, I have sex with _you_ every day,” he countered flippantly, and she gave him a look.

“ _That’s_ about to change.”

“I wouldn’t want to be the cause of marital disharmony,” the oncologist assured them facetiously.

“Anyone’s but your _own_ , that is,” House interjected, and Wilson made a face.

“Guess I’ll have to eat _both_ of those T-bone steaks at the Roadhouse, then,” he decided smartly, starting to turn away.

“You’re going to eat lunch at the Roadhouse?” House looked even more pained as he weighed his choices.

Finally Larry laughed and let him off the hook. “Go ahead.”

He gave her a suspicious glance. “That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

“You’re not going to exact some... horrible repercussions later?”

“Well...” Larry gave it some thought. “In a couple of weeks I’ll be making you get up in the middle of the night and change dirty diapers.”

“You make me do that now,” House reminded her.

“You should be able to handle it then,” she told him with a smile. “Go ahead. This a-s of a doctor I’m consulting for gave me a bunch of new tests to run on our idiot patient.”

“You’re going to eat lunch, though, right?” House asked, unhooking his cane from the top of the whiteboard and grabbing his jacket. “And not... stand a lot?”

“I’ll try not to do my lab work while hanging from the ceiling this time,” she assured him. “And, yes, I’ll have lunch. Probably a big, slimy, sour pile of PICKLES.” House shuddered.

 

_A couple weeks later..._

House was so bored, he had taken to attempting a differential diagnosis on Chase’s neighbor’s dog who scarfed petunias and made constant whining noises described by the Australian as “medium-pitched, undulating, and d—n annoying.” House had written that last part on the whiteboard and demanded conditions from his doctors whose symptoms included being “d—n annoying.” Cameron, the only one who refused to play along unless repeatedly browbeaten, had come up with several caustic rejoinders but, being Cameron, swallowed them all.

“I just don’t understand the fascination with Chase’s dog—“

“It’s my _neighbor’s_ dog,” he corrected, for the third time.

“—when you turned down that case not two days ago—“

“I’m tired of humans,” House replied glibly. “I want something furry. But I don’t mean that in a sexual way,” he assured them quickly.

“—the case,” Cameron persisted, “that sounded _very interesting_ —“

“ _Too_ interesting,” House told her, a bit more seriously, still staring at the whiteboard of symptoms.

“What?” Cameron asked in confusion.

“I said, what color is the dog’s poo?”

“Well, whenever I step on it,” Chase answered, unpleasantly reminded of the occurrence, “it’s sort of a... light brown.”

“Wet or dry?”

“This is getting disgusting,” Cameron protested.

“If it’s a dog, it’s disgusting, but if it’s a human, it’s okay?” Foreman teased.

“You are _so_ speciest,” House informed her in mock-horror.

“That’s not even a _word_ ,” Cameron sighed, dropping her head on her arms in defeat.

“Dry,” interjected Chase.

“It’s merely a—“ House was cut off by the beeping of his pager. Cameron waited for her own to go off as she and the others were contacted, but the only noise was from House limping quickly towards the door. “Gotta go,” he told them suddenly.

Cameron stared after him. “Wait a minute—where are you—“

“Chase, either your neighbor is deliberately poisoning her dog with glufosinate, or she uses _way_ too much herbicide in her garden,” House added, and then he was gone.

“D—n,” Foreman muttered, reaching for his wallet while Chase grinned.

“I don’t understand,” Cameron protested. “What’s going on?”

Foreman reluctantly handed Chase a twenty. “A dog! I thought there was _no way_...”

Still confused, Cameron pointed out, “But you don’t know if he’s right...”

Foreman just shook his head, as if she were rubbing his loss in. “My neighbor’s ex-husband told me last week that the vet gave her the exact same diagnosis,” Chase crowed. “Herbicide poisoning, from the little mongrel eating all her flowers.”

Cameron stared at the two of them. “You _encouraged_ him to waste his time on your neighbor’s dog who isn’t even _sick_ anymore when we could have been treating a _person_? Just for a _bet_?” She looked as if they’d hit a new low.

Foreman sighed and shook his head. “No, we encouraged him to waste his time on a dog so he wouldn’t get so bored he’d start flinging rubber balls at us,” he corrected.

“Again,” Chase added bitterly.

“There was no way we were taking any new cases on right now anyway,” Foreman assured her.

“Why not?” Foreman just smiled a little and got up to refill his coffee cup. She turned to Chase accusingly. “Do you guys know what’s going on, and you’re just not telling me?”

“No,” the Australian replied innocently, _too_ innocently. He and Foreman shared a look that said they knew _this_ kind of fun could last until _well_ after House returned... no matter how many hours Larry was in labor.

 **

The only way Foreman and Chase could keep Cameron from calling House during the three days he was absent—or worse yet, driving over to his apartment—was by promising her that as soon as he came in, they would tell her what the big secret was. On the morning of the fourth day, rather earlier than usual for him, House finally staggered through the door to his office. Cameron immediately jumped up to ask him if everything was okay, but before she could even get into the same room he had dropped his bag heavily on the floor and flung himself face-down onto the couch, yanking a blanket from the back of the couch over his head.

Cameron paused with her mouth open in question, then bravely proceeded forward. “Dr. House?” she ventured. There was no answer. “Dr. House?” There was an unintelligible mumble from under the blanket. She started to lift a corner of it. “Um, Dr. House?”

“ _WHAT_?!” he snapped, glaring up at her from under the fleece. His eyes were puffy and bloodshot.

“Are you... hungover?” Cameron asked with some surprise.

“Is that all you wanted to ask?” he replied viciously. “Good. Go away. Wake me at lunchtime.” He started to burrow back under the blanket. Shrugging helplessly, Cameron tried to straighten the blanket out a bit. “D----t!” he growled at her. “Don’t tuck me in! Just go away!”

Cowed and rather confused, Cameron backed away to the conference room and shut the door behind her. Turning to a smirking Foreman and Chase, she demanded, “What was that all about?”

Foreman shrugged. “Hard to get sleep in a house with a new baby,” he commented, and Cameron’s eyes widened predictably.

“He has a new baby?” She thought back. “He never mentioned anything about it... did he?”

“You know House and his little secrets,” Chase answered. Cameron had to wonder if this was the _only_ little secret House had that the other two doctors knew about.

 **

Fortunately none of the team members had to perform the dreaded task of actually waking House up; he arose on his own, somewhat before lunchtime, and staggered into the conference room for some coffee. “Please tell me we have a new case,” he began, before anyone else could say anything.

“We have a new case,” Foreman assured him, holding out a folder.

“Thank you, Lord,” House breathed, sipping his coffee and ignoring the folder. “And by ‘Lord’ I was, of course, not referring to _you_ ,” he clarified to the neurologist.

“I figured that,” Foreman replied, dropping the folder back on the table.

House limped up to the whiteboard. “Alrighty. Symptoms for our new case...”

“Tachycardia, low white count, muscle soreness in the legs,” Chase began, and House scribbled them down quickly.

“Tox screen was negative,” Foreman added. “Previous doctors ruled out all the popular infections.”

“You just had a baby,” Cameron interjected, and House sighed visibly and rolled his eyes.

“Betcha didn’t even know I was pregnant,” he shot back. He patted his stomach. “Rock hard. All that volleyball I played in school. MRI?”

“It was clean,” Chase answered dutifully.

“Why didn’t you tell us your wife was pregnant?” Cameron persisted.

“Just found out myself,” House responded flippantly. “G-d! Imagine the shock I had! I thought she was just getting fat. Was it clean-clean, or ‘there’s some little black spots but they’re probably nothing and I have a date tonight’ clean?”

“It was clean,” Chase repeated. “I looked over all the scans myself.”

“How reassuring,” House muttered, and Chase rolled his eyes. “Family history?”

“Nothing significant,” Foreman shrugged.

“Was it a boy or a girl?”

House clenched and unclenched his fists as if willing himself to be patient. “My wife and I don’t believe in gender stereotyping,” he told Cameron facetiously. “We’ve decided we’re just going to let the child _exist_ , in whatever state of being it chooses.” He turned back to the board. “Any _insignificant_ family history?”

“Parents killed in a car crash, maternal grandmother had a stroke, grandfather a heart attack,” Chase read off. “Some family history of mental illness...”

“Oh, what family _doesn’t_ have that?” House asked, widening his eyes a little for the ‘crazy’ stare.

“And I doubt the guy’s just _imagining_ his low white count,” Foreman added.

“What did you _name_ it?”

Sensing there was no possible way he was going to dissuade Cameron from this subject, House sighed and answered, “Elinor,” as he wrote it on the whiteboard. “So, a boy, then. And, I can’t stress how vitally important it is that you spell it correctly,” he added. “Tears have already been shed over the spelling. Not _my_ tears, but nurses’ and relatives’ and postal workers’ and so forth. Anyone who has dared spell it wrong in the presence of my wife, in fact.”

“Are we ever going to meet your wife?” Cameron asked him. She had often found herself wondering what sort of woman the elusive Mrs. House could be, exactly.

House made a thoughtful, deliberating sort of expression. “Unfortunately, no,” he finally decided. “But I feel like she’s always here with me in spirit.”

“Your other daughter’s name is Olivia, isn’t it?” she continued.

“Yes,” House agreed, “but we call her... _O_ ,” he added in a surprised tone.

“O?” Cameron repeated in confusion.

“You’re not saying it right,” he corrected. “It’s... _O_.” This time House sounded pleasantly startled. Foreman and Chase tried not to make eye contact in the background. “It’s not just a name,” he explained. “Well, it’s not a _name_ at all, it’s a letter, but it’s not _just_ a letter, it’s an _expression_. It requires voice modulation and change in facial expression. _O_...” He drew it out, staring off into the distance as if contemplating a great work of art or a grand statement of philosophy.

“Oh.” Cameron wasn’t sure what else to say to that.

“Look, if you can’t get it right,” House told her grouchily, “let’s just drop the subject entirely, alright? Now, what about some of the _less_ popular infections?”

 

_A while later..._

Sometimes Cameron really thought House had gone around the bend. Yes, he was a genius. Yes, he saved lives. But sometimes his behavior was so extreme, it was like he was _baiting_ something—other people, the world in general, Fate—trying to provoke them, or it, into beating him down. She was just worried that someday he wouldn’t be able to get back up.

The whole migraine-medicine incident—she just couldn’t believe it. Foreman and Chase had just shaken their heads, but Cameron had been _shocked_ , really, to find out that House had been kicked out of the running for the prestigious Doyle internship at the Mayo Clinic for cheating on an exam—if for no other reason, she would have thought House would be too proud of his own intellect to steal answers from someone else. She had pictured him as the kind of student who, obnoxiously, knew everything—and who, when he _didn’t_ know something, devised such brilliant displays of B.S. that most instructors just threw up their hands and gave in.

But he _had_ cheated, apparently, and the person he’d cheated off of had turned him in, an action House had never forgiven or forgotten even twenty years later... going so far as to invite the man onto House’s own territory and question _his_ research ethics! As if House had the right to sneer at _anyone_ else’s ethics. And as for injecting himself with the man’s experimental, illegal-in-the-U.S. migraine medicine, along with nitroglycerine to induce a migraine—the complications and accidents that _could_ have arisen from that, that House _had_ to know about, made Cameron mute with disbelief. She didn’t even _want_ to add in the “dropping acid, countering it with antidepressants” part. The fact that House was still upright and functional instead of, say, _in a coma_ from all the drug interactions did little to lessen her anxiety.

He was in his office now, listening to his iPod and messing around on the Internet—some game involving the rapid mouse-clicking of colored blocks had passed by the screen more than once—while she and Chase sat silently in the conference room. Chase was torturing another pencil with his teeth and occasionally scratching at the crossword puzzle; Cameron was ostensibly finishing up the paperwork on their latest case—the burn victim who had, imagine this, royally screwed up his system by taking antidepressants unsupervised—but in reality she was staring at the forms and thinking about House curled up on the floor in the dark, underneath the table, trying to ride out his migraine. And of House in the locker room, dripping wet, fresh out of the shower, wrapped only in a towel—uh, in the locker room, tripping out on LSD while their patient struggled to survive.

Suddenly she spotted Foreman jogging down the hallway towards them, and she tensed immediately. The neurologist sidled through the door to the conference room, staring into House’s office as if nervous he had been seen in his haste. With his boss still absorbed in his Internet games, Foreman ducked behind the whiteboard, peering through the glass into the office while mostly obscured by the bit of solid wall.

“Foreman, what are you—“ Cameron began.

“Larry’s coming,” her colleague revealed, an anticipatory expression on his face.

Cameron frowned in confusion, but Chase’s eyes widened and he immediately jumped up from his seat and joined Foreman in his hiding spot. “This is going to be good,” the Australian predicted with an evil grin.

“What’s going on?” Cameron asked them as the two other doctors signaled for her to get up from the table. She refused to budge. She saw House start to glance over at them, attracted by the noise and movement, but then the door to his office from the hallway opened and his concentration was refocused on his visitor—Dr. Lawrence.

Cameron just wasn’t sure what she thought of Dr. Lawrence. She seemed nice enough, capable certainly, and her remarkably easy rapport with House on the few occasions Cameron had seen them together tended to make her boss a little calmer and more pleasant to deal with, at least temporarily. But that in itself worried Cameron—she knew that House was married, to some mysterious, undoubtedly saintly woman who had borne him two young daughters, and she knew Lawrence was married with at least one child, too. From what the redheaded immunologist had confessed to Cameron, she also knew they’d had a fling when Lawrence was on House’s team—in Cameron’s position—before their respective marriages. And judging by some of the comments and glances that passed between the two of them, Cameron wondered—guiltily—if perhaps they weren’t _quite_ over each other. Or even worse—

Cameron’s eyes refocused quickly when she heard the first raised voice coming from the office. House was out of his chair now, leaning against the front of his desk, gripping his cane firmly with both hands and staring at them as if they held the secrets of the universe. Or at least an interdimensional portal that would allow him to escape his current situation. Dr. Lawrence stood in front of him, furious. She wasn’t yelling at the top of her lungs— _that_ would have carried clearly through the glass wall—but there was no doubt she was reading him the riot act. And his body language said he knew he deserved it.

Cameron supposed the woman had purposely waited until the pain of the migraine had worn off—or rather, been chemically managed—before storming in with her lecture. Foreman had predicted something of this sort might happen when they had returned to the conference room after the patient’s delightful maggot treatment to find House still curled on the floor, asleep, but with a pillow under his head, a blanket draped over him, and the word ‘IDIOT’ written in capital letters on his forearm with a black marker. A sure sign, the neurologist had commented, that Larry would be hunting their boss down later.

The gist of the one-sided conversation was easy enough to guess, what with words like ‘stupid,’ ‘irresponsible,’ ‘childish,’ ‘selfish,’ ‘dangerous’ occasionally breaking through the barrier between the office and the conference room. House’s death-grip on his cane tightened even more, his knuckles going white, when Lawrence mentioned something about ‘the kids,’ and Cameron found herself almost nodding in agreement as she thought of yet _another_ potential horrible consequence of House’s actions—what if something had happened to one of his children, or his wife, while he was paralyzed by his unnecessary, self-induced pain? He tried to say something, in his own defense Cameron supposed, although she didn’t know what excuse he could possibly give that would hold water with a woman like Molly Lawrence, but each time he barely got his mouth open before she shut it again with another undoubtedly caustic rejoinder.

It wasn’t until Lawrence had stopped berating him and was just standing, hands on her hips, waiting for anything he dared to say, that Cameron realized with a start that she had been staring, avidly, at her boss while he endured a painful and humiliating confrontation in what _should_ , by rights, have been the privacy of his office. Immediately she flushed and felt terribly guilty, although she didn’t know what to do. To get up and walk out the door, or to another part of the room, would only draw attention to her presence, when so far it appeared that House had not spared much thought to her general direction; it would, however, be absolutely impossible to pretend she had no idea what was going on in his office, should he ever glance towards her. She saw now why Foreman and Chase had hidden themselves _before_ the incident started.

Cameron tried just averting her eyes, but the tension, and the silence, from a few feet away drew her reluctant gaze back like a magnet. The two doctors’ positions had not changed; House was still rigid, staring firmly at the floor like he thought maybe if he just pretended he didn’t see the woman in front of him, she would disappear. Finally Lawrence gave up, made one last remark Cameron didn’t quite catch, and turned to leave.

Just as she started to walk away, though, House moved, raising his cane and using the handle of it to gently snag her arm. Lawrence glanced back at him, and Cameron could almost _feel_ the effort required for him to lift his gaze to hers. The intensity she saw in his eyes, just from the side, made the young doctor very glad she wasn’t in his direct path. Lawrence just raised an eyebrow, waiting, until House said something, too low for Cameron to catch.

Whatever it was placated the other doctor enough for her to drift a few steps closer to him. House continued talking, quietly, with an awkward, confessional manner punctuated by nervous shifts. He looked, Cameron thought, more vulnerable than she had ever seen him—and she was torn between overwhelming compassion for an obviously aching, all too human soul, and abject terror at the thought of his fury if he _knew_ she had seen it.

The tension in the air began to dissolve as Lawrence appeared to accept House’s reasons, or explanations, or apologies. She even gave him a small smile—and came close enough that he could rest his hands on her waist. Cameron’s eyes widened as her compassion suddenly took a back seat. The gesture turned into an embrace that could, technically, be termed ‘innocent’—if you didn’t know that House loathed and scorned all forms of hugging. He might as well have been grabbing her a-s in the hallway.

And then he really _was_ grabbing her a-s, and Lawrence laughed and smacked his hand away and made some threatening gesture involving his cane. “If we do that, let’s ask _Cameron_ to join us,” House said loudly, turning to stare straight through the glass at his employee. Her cheeks blazed and her gaze dropped to her lap as she realized she’d been caught. Whatever she saw between them, or thought she saw, immediately jumped to the back of her mind as she tried to think of a comment or a question or an excuse or something to keep House from torturing her for the rest of the month. At least.

She could hear Chase and Foreman snorting from their little corner and making “Busted!” noises in an unhelpful, juvenile way. Lawrence just laughed and touched the side of House’s face in a gesture that was almost painfully intimate and he gave her a rare, genuine smile in return. The redheaded doctor turned and left, House staring after her until she vanished down the hall—then he turned his gaze, narrow and predatory, back on his current immunologist, and Cameron gulped.

 

_Later still..._

Some people kept a bottle of scotch—or a bottle of Vicodin—in their desk for “days like this.” Dr. Lawrence kept a bag of Dove chocolates, the finest, purest little chunks of milk chocolate ever wrought by the hand of man. Or whoever. Cameron had been dubious of their power at first, but by the time they were halfway through the bag, the sugar high had fully set in and she felt a pleasant disconnect from her actions, not quite the same as being tipsy but a lot safer should Cuddy walk in on them at that moment. Or should they have to drive anywhere, like home.

“Look, I am _not_ going to say I told you so,” Lawrence repeated, with an air of finality, and Cameron dropped her head briefly to the black metal desk with a sigh. “But, did I not _suggest_ , three months ago, that you somehow _force_ House to sign off on your article?”

“Yes, you _did_ say that,” Cameron admitted, for the third time. It seemed important, somehow, to keep going over this.

“For example, by offering to take his clinic hours for a couple weeks, or do his backlog of paperwork, or wash his car in a string bikini...”

Cameron groaned aloud at that suggestion. “I really don’t think _Mrs._ House would be comfortable with that,” she pointed out, but Lawrence smirked.

“Oh, you never know,” the older woman teased. “Mrs. House might be very open‑minded.”

“ _Another_ thing I don’t need to be thinking about,” Cameron sighed. “But—don’t you think it’s just _wrong_ that I should have to bribe my boss somehow to get him to sign off on an article about one of _his_ cases, that _he_ is getting credited for?”

Lawrence’s face wrinkled in thought. “ _Wrong_ is kind of a strong term,” she decided carefully. “Unless the string bikini was involved, of course. _Out of the ordinary_ would I think be more appropriate. And considering that your boss is House...”

Cameron nodded resignedly and fumbled the red foil on another Dove bite. “...out of the ordinary is the usual,” she finished, popping the chocolate in her mouth.

Her next words were indecipherable, as they were said around a chunk of chocolate, but fortunately Lawrence had a reminder of her own. “I wrote _tons_ of short papers when I was working for House”—as if Cameron needed to hear _that_ again—“and _every_ sign-off was a challenge. Taking clinic hours worked pretty well during cold and flu season—he _despises_ small children with runny noses and hysterical parents—but the rest of the time I was reduced to buying him meals, running interference with Cuddy, and, on one memorable occasion, hiding his Vicodin...”

Enough of the chocolate had melted that Cameron could get a word in. “But you’d think he’d want to _read_ them, just to make sure his name wasn’t being put on c—p, wouldn’t you?” she reasoned.

Lawrence shook her head, sad that Cameron was still trapped in her little bubble of logic. “ _That_ kind of reputation, he doesn’t care about,” she told the younger doctor. “He’s got tenure, he’s got a sweet position here, he doesn’t have to teach, and if other doctors at other hospitals should be foolish enough to look down on him because his name is all over the grade-Z journals—which it isn’t, by the way—he could probably take them any time when it comes to diagnostics.”


End file.
